


Grace Is Just Weakness

by hollowbirds (torturousthings), Imagining_Fantasy



Category: Bandom, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Writing & Publishing, Angst and Humor, Falling In Love, Harlequin, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, POV First Person, Past Abuse, Past Drug Addiction, Rating May Change, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2019-06-13 17:08:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15369291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torturousthings/pseuds/hollowbirds, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imagining_Fantasy/pseuds/Imagining_Fantasy
Summary: Music was my world, my saving grace, growing up in New York City. Even when I had nothing, and my back was against the wall and a gun was against my head and everything was screaming at me to just roll over and die, I still had music.But there was no way I could have pursued it without this. This being a writer with more secrets than people who knew his name, and more quirks than words he spoke in a day. This wasn’t the grand destiny I had planned for myself, but hey, maybe something good could come out of it. Once I figured out what the hell was going on, of course.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Matt here. I'd like to start off by thanking my incredible co-writer, hollowbirds, for giving me so much motivation to start this work. I cannot wait to further this narrative and bring these characters to life, and she's to thank for that. Make sure to give her all the love.
> 
> Disclaimer: None of this is real and all rights go to their respective owners. Yep.
> 
> On that note, I hope you all enjoy :)

 

As my manager gave me the worst news of my life, he smiled, relieved to be rid of another mentally damaged, penniless millennial who survived off of each paycheck because somebody told them going to college would keep them off the streets. What a load of bullshit. The only thing college did was give you one more thing to put on your resume for a job that required ten years of experience, even though you were barely halfway through the second decade of your life.

 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Urie.” He wrestled with that god forsaken smile, probably embarrassed to show his glee but too relieved to hide it. “Your track record with this company is fantastic, but-”

 

“But you can’t have someone with jacked medical insurance, I get it,” I snapped, already letting my disdainful thoughts warp into biting attacks, imagining ways in which I could fuck up his neat office. Maybe set fire to his potted plant, there. “Let go of the weak links first.”

 

“No,” my manager huffed, “you misunderstand-”

 

“I understand just fine.” I clenched my hands into fists. “If you gave a shit about me, there’s no way we’d be here in the first place. Now why don’t you do us both some good and let me leave because I have people to take care of.”

 

He cleared his throat, adjusting his tie in the way that only people like him knew how to. “Mr. Urie, you do not have any family listed in your file-”

 

“Oh, you did your reading up? How sweet of you.”

 

As I smiled at him with my sweetest smile, I knew I would regret this later. I didn’t know where this was coming from- some repressed place in the back of my mind, maybe. Explosive altercations were never the direction I enjoyed to go. Even as a tender, young child, I would hide somewhere compact and dark rather than face the unhinged group of kids who pushed my older sister off a ledge which broke both her legs, then dart back home through alleys and passageways into a crumbling apartment with four spitfires and their weary parents. That was my reality.

 

In this case, I was willing to let loose, even if I came back later groveling on my knees. For retribution? Yeah, sure.

 

“I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” My manager broke eye contact and shuffled with the papers on his cluttered desk. “You will receive pay for two more weeks- plenty of time to find a new job. Have a nice rest of your day.” His eyebrows lifted in mock sympathy. “I’m real sorry about all-” he waved a hand, “this. If I could I would’ve done it differently.”

 

“Well, you didn’t.” I snatched the paper he offered me out of his hand, kind of wishing it would scratch his hand that had that damn two thousand dollar ring right next to a gold-plated Rolex. “See you in hell.”

 

I stormed out of the office before he could muster any accusations of insubordination, slamming the door as hard as I could on the way out. I gritted my teeth, ignoring the concerned glances my coworkers, no, former coworkers, threw my way as I cleaned out the small table that was my desk, my hands shaking as they tossed scraps of paper and old reminders into the trash.

 

Uncovering a yellowing photograph interrupted my frantic, desperate cleaning. It was a snapshot of when I had just graduated high school, an arm around my ex-girlfriend. She was smiling from ear to ear and my eyes were bright and grin just as gleaming, unfazed by the weight about to be dropped onto my shoulders. For a moment I considered discarding it too, starting anew completely; but then again, no good has ever come from forgetting the past, only learning from it. I tucked it into my jacket pocket pressed against my quickened heart, and briefly I felt my pulse through my shirt. For some inexplicable reason, it was comforting. Maybe I liked to remember that I was alive underneath it all. The screwing up, the clean starts. My heartbeat was the only constant in my life.

 

I finished stuffing the remnants of my latest job into my work bag, slung it over my shoulder, and left, not really sure where I was going, but knowing this wasn’t where I belonged. One thing about New York City was that no matter what time of day it was, or who had died, or whatever tragedy in the world was occurring, the city kept moving, like a merciless train with no care for anything other than staying on time. It didn’t get its nickname for nothing. This city never slept; not for me, not for anyone. As remarkable as it may seem, when you live in it, you realize that you really don’t matter. Nothing puts life in perspective like having millions of people crammed into one place, all independent, all perfectly capable of caring for themselves. I descend into the subway, getting shoved around a couple of times by people far wearier than me. Another benefit of New York: someone always had it worse than you; that made complaining superfluous.

 

Good on my boss for firing me on a Friday; he sure knew how I’d handle it. I called up Jon because he was the one person I trusted to be in a bar on a Friday night. He picked up after three rings, because it’s always the disaster of a person who is the most reliable.

 

“What d’you need?” he mumbled, probably already a couple drinks in, which was admirable at five in the evening, although not particularly surprising. Jon had been fired himself a couple of weeks prior, and now drowned his sorrows with the last of his savings.

 

“Got the axe today.” I plug my other ear, the roar of the subway making it impossible to hear Jon’s feathery voice. “Need to forget about it for a little while.”

 

“Mhm.” I heard rustling through the phone, likely Jon figuring out where he was. “Come down to Stanley’s, the one on the east side. Drinks  on me.”

 

“How generous of you.”

 

“Yes. I am the bestest friend and you are lucky to have me,” Jon agreed. “See you later, dude.”

 

“Yeah, bye.” I hung up, dropping my phone into my satchel.

 

A woman at the subway station was staring at me with that sanctimonious expression I was familiar with, so I gave her the most wolfish grin I could manage. She turned away and huffed something bigoted I preferred not to hear. The train pulled up and its doors slid open, beginning the mad dash to board before they automatically closed with no exceptions.

 

A couple of tourists were trying to figure out where to go, holding an outdated map of the wrong burrow. Normally, I would have stopped to direct them, thereby missing my train in the process, but not today. As much as I tried to ignore my upbringing, that deep-seated, Mormon politeness was too ingrained in my mannerisms to brush aside. Judgement clouded by contempt, I stepped on the train and let the door slide shut, the metallic sound of it clanking against the body of the subway sending a jolt of pain through my head. The second we started moving, regret flooded my chock-full system. I was acting like a conceited asshole, and I knew it, but I was too exhausted to care. And wasn’t that the reason the older generations said we were doomed? Our souls were worn to the bone and still expected to support, our horizons were caged and we were looked upon to go, and most important of all, I was lost not because I didn’t know the way, but because I had already taken every path.

 

I leaned my head against the vibrating train car, closed my eyes, and let the roar of the subway drown out my thoughts.

 

-=-=-=-=-=-

 

Leave it up to Jon to pick the one well-kept bar in all of Brooklyn. My work clothes seemed almost informal compared to the immaculately dressed revelers working their way around the bar. I edged around a young woman observing me with just a bit too much hunger in her eyes, as her sharp acrylic nails tapped insistently against the counter’s cheap wood. Her dark lipstick and perfectly trimmed eyebrows were clear warning signals that she would be the one in charge of your life if you even dared to try and take her on. I had dealt with more than enough of those women in my life. They were smart - too smart for their own good, really - and they took complete advantage of knowing that there were plenty of men who would give them everything they ever wanted if they just played their cards right. Women could hide anything with enough concealer and a pretty smile.

 

Jon waved me over from his spot at the far end of the counter, tipsy grin almost amusing. I collapsed into the empty chair next to him and dropped my satchel onto the floor. He slid me a drink before I could even look up, and I flashed a gracious smile, taking a long swig. It burned my throat, which meant it was way too strong for my own good, but eventually pooled warm in my stomach, relaxing my shoulders inch by inch.

 

“So,” Jon propped up his chin with his hand, “what happened, dude? I thought this was supposed to be your, like, big break or somethin’, and the last I heard you were about to be promoted.”

 

“I _was_ !” I snapped, then reeled myself in after Jon winced at my harsh tone. “Sorry. But yeah, the company apparently had to do some,” I did air quotations, “ _downsizing_. I call bullshit. The government showed up last month and implemented new mental health regulations on the company, so now they have to pay for any part of that in our company healthcare. Guess who has the biggest track record of mental health problems.”

 

His eyes widened. “Shit. I’m so sorry-”

 

“It’s fine,” I said through gritted teeth, downing another drink.

 

“But…” Jon struggled to find the right words. “What about Spence?”

 

“What about him? There’s no way he can help right now. I don’t care what the doctor says. I was the one who said I could take care of everything.” My words became clipped, biting, escaping my clenched jaw like rattlesnakes. “I got clean, I finished college, and I got out of that shitty neighborhood, but _nothing_ I did could erase the fact that I was born with a fucked up head that every place I work for knows about!”

 

Jon blinked and dropped his eyes. My mouth opened so I could apologize.

 

“I...shit. Um-”

 

“Dude, don’t worry about it,” he shrugged, making a dismissive motion. “You’re letting it out, that’s why we’re here.”

 

“I guess.”

 

A comfortable silence settled between us, the only sound the bustling and chatter of the popular location. I glanced at my watch, the digital display reading 7:00; too early to leave, but I definitely didn’t want to stay and get wasted. As enjoyable as drowning my struggles in alcohol and warmth sounded, the search for a new job would likely begin tomorrow, and I know from personal experience that showing up for an interview hungover made you much, _much_ less likely to get an interview.  

 

I turned to Jon, feeling my eyelids starting to droop. “Any chance you know any company that I haven’t worked for yet that needs someone with a music degree?” I chuckled. “Oh, wait. Haven’t even used that yet.”

 

“You moved to Brooklyn to get into the jazz scene, right?” Jon waggled a finger at me and raised his eyebrows. I sighed, then guiltily nodded. “Then what the hell are you doing in blue-collar jobs lifting cranes and fixing roads? If you want to be a musician you have to actually play music, go to clubs, and get your name out there. You’re in the best neighborhood for jazz in the country! Just…do it, man.”

 

“If I could catch a break I would do that,” I huffed, pinching the bridge of my nose. “The real issue is my income is small and right now, rent is sky high. My roommate sure isn’t working, so I have to sustain two people with one job. Spence also happens to be my oldest friend, so I can’t just kick him out.” I paused, staring dejectedly into my glass of whiskey. “Nobody wants to do construction work, so it pays damn well. I’d hoped this would be the last one, but now look what happened.”

 

“Oh, woe me,” he mocked, rolling his eyes when I shot an insulted look his way.  “Dude, we’ve all dealt with this. As much as we all want to pursue our dreams, it usually _doesn’t happen_. The only person I know who- wait a minute.”

 

“What?” I inquired.

 

Jon flung a hand in my face, face scrunched in concentration as he tried to remember something. Two beats passed, then a slow smile crept onto his face. “I may have an answer for your job problem.”

 

“ _Really_?” I drawled, more than skeptical. The last time Jon tried to get me involved in a ‘job,’ I was picking bits of weed out of my clothes for months.

 

“Duh, trust me.” He cracked his knuckles - causing me to grimace at the repulsive sound - and leaned back in his chair. “Have you heard of the book series ‘Fever’?”

 

The name rung a bell, but I hadn’t touched a book since I’d finished college. Okay, I didn’t really read in college either; I was occupied reveling in the isolation away from my family. “Uh, kind of.”

 

“That’s a no, then.” Jon was unimpressed. Well, fuck him and his pretentious- “It’s basically a young adult series about the complexities of growing up in today’s world. Every teenager in the world is obsessed with it. Y’know, they cling onto anything super hormonal and nuanced.”

 

“You know this _how_? And how is this in any way relevant to my job?” I hissed, exhausted with Jon’s tipsy ramblings that never got to the point.

 

“Some of us had angsty phases that weren’t skateboarding and smoking pot.”

 

“That’s exactly what _you_ did!” I scoffed.

 

“Doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter.” Jon leaned forward. “Anyway, the author grew up with Spence and I in Colorado. He called the other day, which, like, never happens, so it was weird to begin with, and he said he needed someone who grew up in the city for a long term position.”

 

“Like an editor?” I frowned. My writing ability was atrocious at best, and there was no way I could fake my way through a professional editing job.

 

“Uh, no. I think he needed a source. He could always do his own research, but the dude is a freaking hermit who’s terrified of people and crowds.” Jon leaned in, as though he was about to tell me a huge secret.  “ _Denver_ was too populated for him.”

 

“That’s barely a city.”

 

“Dude, I know,” Jon said, leaning back and letting out a chuckle. “So you’d just help him with what it’s like as a kid here. About school, people, the subway- I don’t know.”

 

I exhale, the horrible craving for a smoke itching the back of my brain. You’d think two years after quitting it wouldn’t be an issue, but smoking was a lifer that clung to you better than any friend ever would. “Where would I even work? This all sounds too informal to be reliable.”

 

“He’s already worked it out with his publishing company. They’re far enough up his ass that he can basically get anything he wants. Most authors don’t get that lucky, but he’s too clever for his own good,” he mused. “You’re lucky he called me and I got fired from doing ads before I could put it out.”

 

“Jon.” I snapped my fingers in front of his face; he was getting too drowsy. “I need a date and time, at least. And who will take care of Spence?” I groaned. “This is a shitty idea.”

 

“Upstate,” he mumbled. “I think he wants someone by, uh, this weekend, or he’s probably gonna have a nervous breakdown.”

 

“It’s _Friday_ , dude.”

 

“Oh yeah, that’s right! So you have to be there tomorrow.”

 

“I can’t find somewhere for Spence to stay by then.” I shook my head vigorously. “I’ll just find another job-”

 

“Jus’ send him to my place. I have plenty of space.” Jon hadn’t looked away from his beer bottle for five minutes, which was mildly concerning. “Dude, that rhymed.”

 

He was utterly wasted. I couldn’t believe I was actually considering the offer. It was only because the idea of begging another company to take pity upon the eccentric, failed music prospect was so adverse.

 

“I don’t want your roommate anywhere near him.” I narrowed my eyes. “He’s way too sick to be around someone like _Gabe_.”

 

“That’s mean,” Jon whined, finally looking away from his beer to stare at his fingernails, “but fair. I won’t take my eyes off him and I’ll feed him and everything.”

 

“He’s not a fucking dog.”

 

“Yeah, yeah.” He signalled the bartender to bring another drink. For a moment, alcohol poisoning seemed a very possible outcome of his night, but then I recalled Jon downing a full keg of beer during his last year of college, going straight into a calculus exam, and passing it with no difficulty. Huh. Perhaps sometimes his life was commendable. Actually no, I thought, the majority of it was distressing.

 

I pushed away the whiskey and put my head in my hands. “I can’t believe I’m about to do this.”

 

“Oh, you are?” Jon said, clearly shocked. “Alright! Drinks on me, dude. This will be so great, I promise.”

 

“So convinced,” I muttered. If this didn’t end disastrously, I would be both unsurprised and further in debt than I already was.

 

Finishing the rest of my drink, I bid goodbye to Jon, who was using the counter to keep himself upright at that point, and maneuvered my way out of the bar. He’d be fine; if anything, Jon had mastered the art of dragging his sorry ass home even intoxicated beyond reason. The woman who watched me earlier was gone, though I did spot a left behind lipstick-stained receipt, so maybe she did end up reeling in some pitiful soul. I sympathised, knowing whoever she snagged would have to learn the hard way. Just like me.

 

The crisp night air whipped down the boulevard in short gusts, and while I was inside the sky had darkened into its usual blank canvas, with only the occasional helicopter or plane to decorate it. I pulled my jacket tighter around my form, a shiver travelling down my spine.

 

It was strangely cold for September, even for New York, and although many people brushed it off as a cold spell or global warming, I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was some kind of omen. An omen of what, I had no clue. Conceivably, it was just my mother’s insistence that signs of God were everywhere coming back to haunt me. In my moments of displacement I always seemed to fall back upon my past. Was that a weakness? Maybe, I didn’t know. The past was reliable in a way the present and future never could be- solid. Unchanging.

 

I took my phone out of my satchel and pulled up Spencer’s contact. In his profile picture he was laughing at something, looking off at something not in frame. A string in my heart twinged at his full cheeks and healthy complexion. In all likelihood, he was already asleep, but I wanted to speak to him before I departed on my foolish journey, and it wasn’t like I could do it face-to-face without tearing up. I pressed call and held the phone against my ear. While it was ringing, I hailed a cab, my whistle more than deafening enough to gain its attention.

 

“H’llo?” His soft voice that always sounded similar to water over smooth stones came through the receiver. I allowed the ridiculous smile that broke out because it had been weeks since my friend had been awake after dinnertime. It was just nice to have hope for him.

 

“Hey, Spence.” I slid into the cab, covering the microphone for a second to rattle off my street to the driver.

 

“What’s up?” he said, trying to sound nonchalant, but we both knew I heard the strain on his throat and the cough he had muffled ten seconds before. I’d gotten better and better at ignoring them, but even though I could hide my worry from him, it was still very much eating me up inside.

 

“Uh,” I eyed the driver and decided he wasn’t listening, “I lost my job today and-”

 

“Oh my god, Brendon, why didn’t you call me earlier?” he exclaimed, and I knew his voice would’ve gotten much louder if it could.

 

I lowered my voice shamefully, “I didn’t wanna worry you.”

 

His gentle huff of frustration was picked up by the microphone and I was tempted to apologize, but Spencer was never the kind of person to expect apologies out of anyone. “I can handle it. I may not be...at full strength, but that doesn’t mean you need to coddle me, dude.”

 

“I know,” I sighed and ran a hand through my hair.

 

“What are you- we going to do?” Something about the “we” was strangely comforting, even if it did mean we were in the same basket, both equally fucked. Spencer and I were a team, and that was it. It was nice to know I’d have someone by my side no matter what.

 

“I’m coming back home to pack a bag,” I explained, fidgeting with my watch. “Jon said you guys grew up with a writer in Colorado and he’s offering a job for someone in the city. I have to leave tomorrow morning because it’s a long drive-”

 

“Hold on,” he interrupted, a hint of undeniable lassitude in his tone. “Please tell me you’re not talking about Ryan.”

 

“I, uh, never got a name, so that’s probably it,” I stammered, once again reminding myself how dumb this idea was.  “What, is he a serial killer or something? Jon was way too lax on details.”

 

“No. He’s just...nevermind. It doesn’t matter. I’ll write down his address for you. He can probably pay you well, and that’s what we need right now,” Spencer yawned, and the small sigh at the end felt like somber resignation.

 

“Thanks.” The cab parked on my street and the driver turned to me expectantly. I forked over the crumpled bills and fled before he could complain. Dealing with irritated cab drivers was not really on my to-do list. “I’ll, uh, see you soon, Spence.”

 

“Yeah,” Spencer went with my lie, both of us too heartsick to acknowledge the reality that if he didn’t get better, the next time we’d see each other face to face would be at his funeral. “Yeah, alright. Keep in touch.”

 

“I will,” I promised, desperately hoping this Ryan character had a phone. If he lived in the rural upstate, probably not.“Bye, dude.”

 

“Take care,” he said, even though we both knew very well the phrase was more adequate directed to instead of coming from him. Take care, he said, as though he saw right through me and my unshakeable self-pity.  

 

I stopped in front of my building, looking up at our apartment and seeing the lights go off. I knew Spencer was locking himself in his room, making sure I wouldn’t suffer the way he was.

 

There was something horribly wrong about living under the same roof, and yet being separated by a door that represented everything my closest friend had let himself fall into. He’d said it made him feel better to be alone, but I knew him too well to pretend I didn’t know he was doing it for me, and solely for me. So that I didn’t have to watch him suffer, his pale, sweat-covered face twist into a forced smile to make an attempt at convincing me that he’s alright.

 

He was too selfless for his own good. New York took no prisoners, and sometimes I worried he’d be caught in its whirlwind after trusting the wrong person. But that was where the I had to let go of my possessive nature. As much as I wanted to keep my friends safe and hidden, life had the final say. I wiped the cool moisture off my brow and exhaled, letting go of the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elia here! I gotta say, writing this with Matt was an absolute pleasure and such a different experience than writing alone. He's also ridiculously talented, as you can probably tell 
> 
> I hope you find our combined efforts in this fic, and that you're as excited as we are for everything that's coming!! 
> 
> enjoy :)

Pulling up at the address Spencer had scribbled down on a small post-it he’d left on the dining table, I stared at the gigantic wooden structure that stood in front of me. That house looked like it had room for a family of at least ten, including a chef, two maids, a butler and, fuck me, a bartender. A wide terrace stood on six wooden posts, and I could barely see the entrance from here. Jesus, this guy was filthy rich.

 

“That’ll be, uh-” the cab driver squinted at his counter, “523 dollars, please. You’re paying with cash?”

 

I nodded, reaching for my wallet, eyes still glued to the building, as if it’d disappear if I stopped looking. There was no way this place was going anywhere, though, considering its size.

 

As I handed the last of my money to this guy I’d just shared the past four hours or so of my life with, I realized that this was it. I was here, and if I fucked up, there was no way back to New York. Thus, fucking up was not an option. Not this time.

 

“Twenty seven for you,” the driver said, dropping the change into my palm. I remembered watching movies as a kid, those in which the main character would easily throw a “ _Keep the change”_ to the taxi driver before dashing out of the cab to pursue yet another bad guy. I aspired to being able to indulge in that kind of generosity, to tip every musician on the street who shared my passion, but life had dealt me tougher cards. The guy living here probably could, though.

 

There was something strangely comforting about the atmosphere as I stepped out of the car, the smell of the humid earth and the trees around offering their leaves and branches as shelter to the house - no, mansion - as though accepting it as part of the landscape. A wooden staircase on the left side seemed to be the only way up to the terrace, with no doors at ground-level. Ivy was crawling up what once must’ve been the hand-rail, already engulfing parts of the staircase itself, like Nature made attempts at taking over but decided that there was no urgency in the matter. As I let my eyes travel further along the wooden planks that built up the structure, I noted that the house itself was half-reclaimed by plants, its cracks and crevices full of still life. A small part of me wanted the forested mountain to absorb the house completely, turn it into a temple for the birds and other mountainous animals, but the rest of me knew better. The rest of me knew that this was my one shot to get out of my self-induced hell.

 

So there I was. Twenty-three, jobless, a backpack on my shoulders and dreams on the cusp of desperation filling my head. Well, hopefully not jobless anymore, if this friend of Jon’s was any good at explaining exactly what the hell he wanted.

 

Oddly, the wooden steps didn’t creak under my weight, the only audible sound being of the wind in the leaves overhead and the faint crashing of the small waves lapping the shore of the lake I’d spotted from the window of the cab. Everything seemed so gentle compared to the constant, endless chaos of the city, and yet it wasn’t mild or inconsequential. Each element of the picture had its place in it, one part of a whole.

 

There was an abandoned potted plant on the porch, long dead after what seemed like weeks, if not months, of neglect. Maybe the poor guy didn’t know how to water plants. A shame, to live in the countryside and not know how to tend to the wildlife. Not that I was any better in the botany department, but still, it felt like a waste.

 

I took five seconds to try and dispel the anxious tapping of my foot against the porch, but when it refused to stop, I simply sighed and rapped on the door with my knuckles. Immediately, I had my usual nervous, internal dialogue where I convinced myself not to take off running, although this time, there was nowhere to run to.  A minute of standing awkwardly on the porch passed, and I leaned to my right to peer through the darkened window, searching for any sign of movement on the other side of the glass. God, he wasn’t home, was he? Just my luck.

 

A sudden, smacking sound from behind the house snapped me out of my thoughts.

 

“Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

 

The voice most definitely belonged to a man who sounded deeply concerned, if not frightened. My head swiveled around quickly to look for a path to the back and, noticing that the porch wrapped around the house on the side opposite the stairs, I shouldered my backpack and rushed across it, somehow more confused than when I arrived.

 

The porch was shorter than I had anticipated, which meant that I found myself gripping the rail at the other end to prevent myself from flinging my entire body onto the sharp-looking rocks below. I winced at my own clumsiness, pried my white knuckles off the rail, and slowly, painfully, turned to face the man who was so obviously already staring at me. Count on the dumb city rat to know how to make an entrance. My goal of not fucking up was already being tossed on top of all those other failures. Great!

 

“Um,” I managed eventually. “Hi.” I looked up at the other presence. From where he stood, he seemed roughly my height, only with a much slimmer build, the kind of body that aunts and other middle-aged female relatives fussed over. His chestnut hair grazed his shoulders in curly, longer-than-average locks, and his eyes were steadily staring me down, both surprised and unimpressed at once.

 

Lord, this was already excruciating.

 

“Hi. What the literal fuck are you doing on my porch at eleven in the morning?” The man asked, voice dripping with sarcasm that would’ve made me wince if my eyes hadn’t been immediately focused on the huge, red mark on the back of his hand.

 

“Are you alright?” I reached a hand out instinctively, but pulled it back, remembering that he was effectively a stranger and, on top of that, he was going to be my boss in less than half an hour, given I was lucky. It was easy to forget that not everyone was used to people surrounding them all hours of the day, and that human contact wasn’t a part of everyone’s daily routine.

 

“Besides being attacked by a fucking bee and having a complete stranger on my back porch?” The man raised his eyebrows and forced a mocking smile. “Yeah, man, I’m golden.”

 

“Right, right.” I nodded and scratched the back of my neck. “I’m Brendon, uh- a friend of Jon’s. I swear I can explain why I’m here, but maybe you should do somethin’ about that?” I said, pointing at his hand. So that was a bee sting, huh? My second cousin got one at Central Park once, apparently. Though everyone always said she was a liar.

 

The man grunted, looking down distastefully at his wound, the smile suddenly nowhere to be found, mocking or not. “Is there anything I can do to help?” I offered, knowing full well I knew fuck-all about bee stings.

 

_Please say no. Please say no._

 

“Yeah, sure.”

 

Fuck. Walked right into that one.

 

“Uh. Aren’t you supposed to, like, suck out the stinger or somethin’?”

 

The man blinked at me, unmoving, his face unreadable. A bird landed on the porch railing, sensed the general atmosphere, and took off again. If even animals as dull as birds knew this wasn’t good, I most definitely was going to have to hitchhike home.

 

“Do _what now_?”

 

A symphony of words I only heard spat on the street exploded in my head as I tried to find some way to word my previous sentence without having to repeat _suck_ in front of him again. “The, uh, stinger. It needs to come out.”

 

“No it doesn’t. Bees don’t leave stingers.”

 

“I’m pretty sure they do, actually.” I motioned to him. “Do you mind if I, uh, come closer?” I didn’t know why I was asking for permission, but I was. It wasn’t like he felt unapproachable or anything.

 

The man pinched the bridge of his nose with his uninjured hand. “Yes, goddammit.”

 

I stepped over to him, brushing hair out of my eyes. Before I could ask, the man offered up his stung, slightly trembling hand for me to view, and I clicked my tongue at the sight. Sure, I’d had my back clawed open during an especially dangerous construction job, but at least with that injury I didn’t have to look at it.

“It’s starting to burn,” he said, panic becoming more and more evident. “I think you were right, _fuck_ -”

 

“I’m just gonna squeeze it out.” My street smarts that had decided to disappear in my time of need finally kicked in. Even though common sense was something I liked to think I always had, that usually wasn’t the case. I prayed this was the right thing to do. If this guy died and I got charged with manslaughter,  I would definitely classify that under fucking up.

 

“Just,” the man squeezed his eyes shut and inhaled sharply through clenched teeth, “get it over with, man!”

 

For some reason, that was the exact moment I realized that I already knew his name: Ryan. The name never really attached itself to his face, but the longer I was around him, the more appropriate it seemed. Given the circumstances, I decided that the ethics of Ryan’s name wasn’t as important, and focused my attention on his wound, as difficult as it was with my mind darting in every direction.

 

Observing the minuscule black speck in Ryan’s hand and placing my fingers on either side of it, without any warning, I squeezed it out quickly before he could protest. He yanked his hand away and made some sort of agonized sound from the back of his throat. His eyes were narrowed but there was no malice behind them.

 

“Sorry!” I dropped my hands. “I, uh, had to do it fast or you would’ve messed it up.”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“That came out wrong.”

 

“Wow.” Ryan held up his hand again and raised his eyebrows. “Huh. I think you actually got it.”

 

“Really?” I gaped, leaning forward to take another look at the reddened spot. “I mean, good. That’s good.”

 

A moment passed, then Ryan unbent and cleared his throat. “So, I’m going to go look up how to treat this. And I think you kind of owe me an explanation for,” he gestured to the entirety of me, “this. You want to come inside?”

 

“Oh, uh- Yeah, thanks.” This was common courtesy, and yet the instant relief I felt indicated I’d been half-expecting him, albeit unconsciously, to just kick me off his porch.  As I followed him inside, I noticed a half-full ashtray sitting on the small table by the glass door, suddenly picking up on the smell of smoke that was still floating in the air. It was so familiar and constantly plaguing the streets of New York that I had stopped considering it an unnatural scent. But here, in possibly the greenest place I’d ever been in, it felt out of place, almost as though it was violating an unspoken rule.

 

So, this author dude smoked on his back porch at eleven in the morning. I wondered briefly whether he was also one of those ridiculously routine-bent artists, like Van Gogh or Hemingway, sucking on his daily cigarette before going back to his desk and working his magic, spurting out a few thousand words in an hour or two.

 

The interior of the house was no less grand than the outside, and I proceeded to remember exactly what I had been thinking when I first stepped out of the cab. This guy was filthy rich. I wanted to ask if he was really the only person living in this lavish palace, if he was that selfish to keep this much space to himself, but that was just the pessimistic side of me pushing itself to the forefront. Despising someone because they were more fortunate was never something I particularly indulged in, and yet there was always that thought I couldn’t shake. It didn’t feel fair; it _wasn’t_ fair. However, since the insistent American ideal that you could work your way to the top shaped my entire belief system, I could never push myself to join those socialists and communists in their plight. I never felt entitled to anything.

 

Although everything was decorated comfortably, the house didn’t seem lived in, almost like it was ready for sale. What wasn’t trashed was meticulously cleaned, as if Ryan had moved in halfway and never unpacked fully. My eyes lingered on a particular sofa that looked more expensive than my entire apartment. I wanted to jump on it. I restrained myself. Barely.

 

He stopped in front of a sculpted wooden desk, something that seemed like it belonged in some stuck-up mayor’s office, and sat down, grabbing the mouse of the ancient computer that sat on top of said desk. Random objects, including a set of brightly colored Post-it notes and a black, matted stapler,  were scattered on the surface, contrasting starkly with the stern atmosphere of the room. I wondered if my accent would become British suddenly, surrounded by so much expensive shit.

 

Silence followed as he typed on his keyboard and waited for the webpage to load, and I just stood there, wringing my hands, unsure of whether I needed an invitation from him to sit down.

 

“It just says to put some baking soda and water on it,” he said eventually, as my legs had started becoming strangely numb. It was a miracle he had internet here at all; I’d tried to text Spencer a little before I arrived, only to notice that the service bars on my phone had completely vanished. Damn mountain.

 

“Uh, alright.” I shifted uncomfortably, switching my backpack from one shoulder to another. “Do you have baking soda?”

 

I’d heard the term around, but knowing what it meant was expecting too much of me.

 

“I haven’t cooked in years,” Ryan frowned, rubbing his chin. “But it’s probably buried in my pantry somewhere.”

 

Oh, alright. So baking soda was usually for cooking. I bit back the sarcastic remark about how the fact he hasn’t cooked showed on his body, mainly because he was my only hope of getting home. You didn’t body-shame your sole ticket back to civilization. Unless they’re just that hideous. And Ryan— well, Ryan wasn’t.

 

“Okay.” He pressed his thumbs into his eyes, a gesture made only slightly awkward by the red welt on his right hand. “What are you doing here?” He didn’t sound irritated or surprised anymore, just tired.

 

“I can explain now, and you can keep being in pain, or we can deal with this bee situation and the explanation can wait. Your call,” I shrugged, willing my attitude to exude the offhandedness I most definitely wasn’t feeling. It was all awkwardness. All of it.

 

“How about we compromise and you tell me while I’m dealing with this. Forgive me for being suspicious of a stranger whose name I don’t know, who I haven’t seen in my entire life, and who’s in my house that only a few people know the location of.” Ryan crossed his arms, making sure that his sting didn’t brush against anything.

 

Yeah, that seemed fair, although I was about seventy five percent sure that I had, in fact, told him my name before. God, he was only playing more and more into the distracted artist stereotype. After a brief internal debate as Ryan got out of his chair - he probably referred to it as his “writer’s chair” - I decided to follow him to the kitchen. It would likely become one of my favorite places to stay, anyway.

 

The kitchen itself was much like the living room, spacious and luminous, counters spotless, and this time round I knew why: it was never used. And the rest of the house was just as soulless. I couldn’t fathom writing a novel surrounded by no character, no heart, and no attachment. No wonder he needed someone to help him out.

 

He fumbled in his pantry, which was surprisingly full, albeit with preservatives and pre-prepared meals. There were no supermarkets nearby, nor any other kind of business, which meant that he either had someone bringing him food regularly, or did some kind of weekly trip. Hadn’t seen a car out front, though. Did he walk around with a week’s worth of food?

 

I finally let my vision come back into focus after it spaced out, which was probably due to the minimal sleep I’d gotten the night before. I was used to running on less than six hours a night, but that night had been particularly strange.

 

I suddenly noticed what Ryan had been wearing; a washed-out t-shirt over a pair of loose pants that looked too much like sweatpants. No, c’mon. Writer dude wasn’t wearing sweatpants, right?

 

Wrong.

I prayed that those were his pyjamas and that he held himself in a higher esteem than that. Even _I_ wore finer clothes than that and I was worth nothing compared to him. He should be wearing silk kimonos to bed, for God’s sake.

 

“Found it,” he said eventually, victoriously brandishing the little box of white powder.

 

“Great.” I resisted rolling my eyes as he pushed past me to get back to the kitchen, completely ignoring my response. It was increasingly more challenging to not be sarcastic when every word Ryan said seemed to have been doused in it. If sarcasm was cholesterol, he was bordering a cardiovascular disease.

 

“So, tell me,” Ryan said as he opened a cupboard and selected a small bowl, holding it under the sink and filling it with a small amount of water and dumping a modest amount of baking soda in it. “What’s your story? Got shipwrecked on Lake George? Lost hitchhiker from Canada?”

 

“Well, actually, I-”

 

He put a finger up, sticking his other hand in the bowl. “Wait, no. Your accent is way too street for that. New York?”

 

It was too easy to see straight through me. You could probably tell my entire life story from just looking at my face and callused hands. “Uh,” I said, feeling thrown off balance. “Yeah, that’s right. Brooklyn.”

 

“You’re pretty tame for a guy from Brooklyn.” He raised an eyebrow. “What’s your name again?”

 

It felt like being interrogated, and my mood radar was slowly but steadily moving from uncomfortable to irritated. Who did he think he was? Calling _me_ tame, as if I was the one living in the middle of nowhere. It was nothing but a cowardly move, getting away from people. Writing was all about observation, right? This guy didn’t look at anything other than himself. Fuck him, I wasn’t going to give my name again if the asshole didn’t even care.

 

“I’m a friend of Jon’s,” I snapped, aware that I was letting my thick, street rat accent slip through with its rigid, biting tone. “He’s told me you needed to know about growing up in the city. So here I am."

 

“He never told me you were coming.” He was eerily calm. Most people had some sort of reaction to a jab like that. In the city that would get me a sock in the face at best.

 

“Jon’s too busy being drunk at the moment,” I huffed, urging myself to calm down. “I had to talk to Spencer to even know how to-”

 

“Wait, wait.” Ryan blinked rapidly. “Spencer? Spencer Smith?”

 

“Uh, yeah.” The red in my peripheral vision ebbed a bit. “D’you think I made up the name Jon or somethin’?”

 

“No,” he said too quickly, appearing awkward for the first time. “No, I just haven’t heard from him in… a long time. How is he?”

Well, fuck. He didn’t know. Maybe that was why Spencer and I were struggling. As odd a character Ryan was, it was clear he still had affection for his childhood friend, and he surely would’ve helped him out with the medicine and surgery.

 

“He’s- well, he’s not great, but he’s been worse, I guess. We’re trying our best to stay on top of the bills. Hence this, uh, job.” Talking around the fact that Spencer had almost died from his illness and it was a miracle he was recovering at all was the hardest thing I ever managed. I wasn’t sure how close Spencer and Ryan were as of now, but I did know that Spencer would hide anything if it meant not hurting other people, so I respected his choice and kept my mouth shut, for once.

 

“Oh,” he nodded, considering my words for a few seconds, “so you two are roommates then?”

 

“Yeah,” I said, thinking of how little I’d seen said roommate in the past few weeks. Jon had better be taking care of him. And Gabe better be staying the hell away. “Somethin’ like that.”

 

Ryan hummed thoughtfully, and I made an effort not to chuckle at what I’d just realized was in front of me. A grown man, lost in thought in his own kitchen, one hand in a bowl of powdery water. Strange scene for a Saturday morning, or any time of day, for that matter.

 

“Well, you can stay in the guest room,” he concluded, pulling his soaked hand out of the bowl and inspecting it briefly. “I think it’s done.”

 

“Um, so I have a job?” I said incredulously, having given up on the idea the second I almost flung myself off the porch. Water was dripping from Ryan’s hand onto the kitchen tiles, but he didn’t seem to care. He shook his hand lazily a couple times but that was it. He either had a high pain tolerance, or his nerves were damaged. Who knew?

 

“Apparently, yeah. C’mon, I’ll show you your room, Brendon.”

 

Resuming my trailing of him, I let Ryan lead me through one of the many corridors spidering through the house, trying not to laugh as his hand dripped onto the nice wood panels in the hallways. Some part of me hoped the baking soda would somehow react with the material and leave ugly drip marks, just as a reminder of how stupid the decision to not use a fucking _towel_ was. Rich people.

 

When he finally stopped, it was in front of a door that looked exactly like every single door in this place. Walking into the wrong room multiple times already seemed like an unavoidable occurrence, and I felt exhausted just at the idea of it.

 

“Here,” he said, pushing down on the handle, which let out an admirable creak.

 

I knew right away that this room was bigger than my apartment, and even though I knew I had to feel some kind of resentment about it, at that moment I could only revel, because, fuck’s sake, it was a huge ass room and meant that I didn’t have to spend every waking hour around Mister Writer, worrying about losing it. Plus, the lack of a radiator was a huge relief, Jon always preached about how the radioactive energy from them was making everyone dumber. I had no clue if there was any merit to that claim, but Jon tended to be correct about the weirdest things he said. His catchphrase was “Studies show…”

 

“Thanks,” I muttered, moving past him and stepping into the room. The curtains were heavy and drawn, paintings hanging on the walls. A nice room, to say the least.

 

“No problem,” Ryan shrugged, dropping his eyes, already turning away, and it really did feel like that was the first genuine thing he’d said to me so far. “I’ll come and find you when I need you,” he added over his shoulder before disappearing behind the door, pulling it shut.

 

It wasn’t until later, when I was finally lying on the queen-sized guest bed, that I realized I never did repeat my name to him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, it's Matt. Elia and I are putting these out way faster than we thought we were going to, but it's going great. Make sure to give her all the love because the greatest fic of this generation, Estranged, needs to be finished ;) 
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy this chapter

Silence.

 

Complete, utter silence. I hated it. It made me want to crawl out of my skin and scream until the sound was there again. The roar of the city, the comfort of millions of people was replaced by an emptiness that my brain had no idea how to process. Silence meant that there was nothing else to focus on apart from the blood pulsing through my temples and the horrible, night-time thoughts every person has, and yet finds some way to mute. My latest technique was to focus on the sounds of the city at night, and now I didn’t even have that.

 

I thought back to the encounter that morning, to the million ways it could’ve gone better. The things I should’ve said instead of the things that I did say. What did Ryan think of me? They say you can only make a first impression once, and I was never good at having one shot at something, unless it was darts. I was abnormally good at darts.

 

I stared at the old wooden ceiling, seriously considering quitting my attempts to get a couple hours of sleep in and just getting up. Every nerve in my body was on edge, waiting for the building to tremble as a truck roared past my window, or the couple in the next apartment to start screaming at each other again. The familiar clanking of the radiator was replaced by the soundless fan connected to the ceiling. The gentle purr was nothing like the metallic hum that normally lulled me to sleep.

 

After closing my eyes for five minutes and no impulses to sleep washing over me, I threw my legs over the edge of the bed and got up, running an anxious hand through my hair. What if he could hear me? You’d think with the silence that any sound would be amplified throughout the entire house, even if I didn’t know where the fuck his bedroom was, much less if he was asleep. Turning my phone on, I squinted at the eye-searingly bright screen, which displayed 5:23am. Way too early to pretend I was an early riser, which I most definitely was not. Spencer was so used to it that he wouldn’t even leave breakfast on the table for me, because “you should go straight to dinner, Brendon.” Bullshit. It wasn’t like Spencer would let me go near anything he touched anymore anyway. Antiseptic wipes were constantly all over our apartment, nasty reminders of just how bad he was, even if we both knew that his illness wasn’t contagious, but he liked to take his precautions. I stared at my phone again, suddenly wanting to call Spencer to make sure he was alright at Jon’s, but the _No Service_ on the top left corner still taunted me. Shit, I had to find something to do or I’d start worrying obsessively.

 

An idea so dumb, so incredibly stupid yet so genius suddenly popped into my head, and while it was most likely a side effect of my long-term sleep deprivation, it still piqued my curiosity enough to lead me out of the room after having slipped a clean t-shirt on. The corridors were darker and much longer than they had seemed when I wasn’t alone in them and it wasn’t five in the morning. A painting of a deer on the wall made me jump, the shadows manipulating it into something truly horrifying. I didn’t know what it was, but it was enough to force me to muffle a yelp, accelerating my pace. I wasn’t yet free of my fear of not-quite-empty houses because of a certain Kubrick movie.

 

The living room was the least dark of all, because of all the glass panels on its sides, letting pale moonlight flood into the room. I could tell the sun wouldn’t take too long to be up by the way the sky was already losing its ink black shade. I paused in front of the window and a gasp escaped my lips before I could contain it. Thousands upon thousands of stars dotted the sky, decorating it in a way I had never seen before, the lights of the city always selfishly keeping the wonders of the galaxy to themselves. I suddenly wished I knew more about astronomy, just so I could have the satisfaction of recognising constellations and planets. I knew the zodiac signs were up there in the celestial vault, just because Jon had a phase where he’d tell everyone their entire life story based upon their birthdate. He predicted great things for me,“You’ll play for the world to see! You Aries are unstoppable!” but hell, Madison Square Garden hadn’t reached out to book me yet. I thought about my guitar back at home, and regretted not having brought it for a second.

 

If I knew my way around the outside I would have stepped out to look at the stars more closely, but after my near-death plunge yesterday I wasn’t too keen on the idea, and surely I’d have enough occasions in the coming days anyway. Silence wasn’t something you got used to in one night.

 

To the side of the windows, Ryan’s computer sat on the desk heavily, a small, crowded bookcase next to it, leading me to ponder whether the guy owned his own book series. God, that’d make a case of narcissism if I ever saw one. But then again, I was curious as to just how bad his writing was, and if he really earned this palace based upon skill, teen hormones, or some lucky family connection that landed him a contract with an editor.

 

Walking up to the bookcase, I reached an arm out for the nearest book, only to realise upon grabbing it that even if the moon made all the efforts in the world, I would never be able to read whatever was on the cover. This meant that if I wanted to do anything other than waving this goddamn book around, I had to turn the desk lamp on. Which, as a clandestine in this living room, most definitely wasn’t a good idea. Then again, nobody would see the light if they weren’t outside, so I could probably get away with it. In the end, as always, my curiosity outweighed my common sense. He’d never know. Besides, a less-than-stranger in your living room at the crack of dawn wasn’t the worst thing ever, right? That’s what I told myself, at least.

 

I clicked the lamp on, relieved that it wasn’t nearly as bright as I had anticipated, bathing the room in a soft orange hue, illuminating the cover of the book in my hand enough for me to make out the title, which was written in golden script. Snob. Who did he think he was? Tolkien?

 

 _Fever_. Not particularly surprising, since I’d seen it in about every bookstore window for a year after the first one came out, and yet the name and cover picture were so forgettable that if Jon hadn’t told me, I never would’ve gotten it.  I couldn’t remember the titles of the other ones right then, either, but I knew they were all similar. Maybe titles weren’t his strong suit. Did authors even have a say in the titles? Flipping the cover open, I let my fingers run on the first page, on which read the title - again - and, above it, a name that wasn’t Ryan’s.

 

 _G. R. Ross_.

 

A pseudonym, then. It made sense, considering the fact that he seemed to constantly be escaping any kind of social interaction. I chuckled, imagining him swamped by journalists and paparazzis. He’d probably rather suffer a stroke than deal with that.

 

Tearing my eyes from the page, I stared at the computer monitor. God, I hadn’t seen one of those since at least 2005, and I couldn’t think of one single reason why someone would want to keep a monster like that. It was a wonder it hadn’t broken the desk it was on yet. I approached it with a resigned sigh; Ryan hadn’t given me the Wi-Fi password - if there even was wireless connection - and there was no service, so this dinosaur was my only shot at getting online, for even just a few moments.

 

Miraculously, the computer wasn’t off, just on sleep mode, the blue screen lighting up as soon as I touched the mouse, sparing me the ever-deafening Windows starting up noise. Ryan’s name was displayed on it, just above a little white box in which a password had to go, except that I had no clue what the password would be. Books? Might as well give it a shot.

 

The error message didn’t come as a surprise, and a twinge of guilt nagged at me as I clicked on the _Guest_ button. Well, at least today wasn’t the day my own boss caught me red-handed looking through his files. Surely using the computer logged in as a guest was etiquette enough not to get me kicked out. You’d think after twelve hours of not having access to the internet I would know what I actually wanted to do, but my hands hovered over the keys as I wracked my brain for things to look up. My eyes drifted over to the book I left on the desk, and my fingers twitched, restrained by a thought that passed through my head, whispering that I should get to know Ryan the natural way, and not take a cheap, impersonal shortcut.

 

Nah, it was fine. It wasn’t that deep, and nothing I’d find online was going to intrude on his private life. I assured myself that there was nothing weird about this as I typed the words _ryan_ , _fever_ and _book_ into the search bar.

 

After an unsurprisingly long loading time, the first results were just ads for the book and critic reviews, which I didn’t pay any mind to. I didn’t need some indie, middle-aged guy to tell me how much he liked a young adult novel, because that was a recipe for disaster. I clicked on the Wikipedia link for the series, directly skipping the introduction and synopsis, scrolled down to find Ryan’s pseudonym, and stared at the plain black letters. That was _it_? No link, no author page? I thought that only obscure band member names and relatives didn’t have their own pages. Maybe the last person who edited the page simply forgot to link it back, I thought, typing the pseudonym into the Wikipedia search bar, only to discover after hitting escape that it was the exact same page. A sentence in italics indicated that this page was _Redirected from G. R. Ross._ I skimmed through the different segments of the series page, looking for any indication of author background, but there was only information about plot, reception, and achievements. There was no way the series wasn’t as popular as Jon had said, because no unpopular book won every writing award I knew of, and then some.

 

I glanced back at the cover and its golden finish, the words _Westchester Fiction Award Winner 2010_ stretching beneath the author’s name. Fuck if I knew what that meant, apart from it being some kind of validation of the quality of the writing. Guess I’d have to take a peek at some point. I turned back to the webpage, reading about the apparent “cultural impact” the series had.  Apparently it had a sort of cult following, and most teens claimed it was the next great piece of American literature. After hearing the same about Twilight as a teenager one too many times, I was still skeptical about that one.

 

The moment I selected the _Plot_ tab, the sound of the front door opening sent my brain into panic mode, my hands forgetting how to operate a computer. Thankfully, being robbed was not on the long list of things I’d experienced before, but I was pretty sure thieves didn’t own the key to the front door, which either meant that someone else lived here, or that Ryan somehow spent the night outside. Neither of these options seemed particularly great right then, because while the former made Jon a liar, the latter made Ryan an absolute nuthead.

 

I knocked the mouse off of the desk and then picked it up as fast as I could, scrambling to close the browser. No matter who it was, googling your host with their own damn computer probably wasn’t the best way to greet them in the morning. Hitting the button at the bottom of the screen, I felt the slightest relief at the sight of it turning black, like it was supposed to. Leave it to me to wind up sneaking on a broken computer. Realizing sitting in Ryan’s desk chair would be just as incriminating, I jumped out of it and stood up, my tired brain struggling to make up an excuse as to why I was in the living room this early in the morning.

 

Ryan entered the room yawning and rubbing his eyes, and I momentarily prayed he wouldn’t notice my presence if I stood still enough, but I knew I’d been spotted as soon as he looked up. He stared at me, hand reaching for the light switch by the door. God, this was bad.

 

“Hi,” I managed, squinting slightly because of the sudden, bright light coming from the ceiling. The desk light hadn’t prepared me enough for any of this.  I opened my mouth to swear I wasn’t crazy, but Ryan interrupted before I could bury myself even further, his eyes traveling to the book discarded on his desk. _Fuck_.

 

“Didn’t know there was such a thing as reading right after waking up,” he remarked, raising an eyebrow. “Is that some trendy city health thing I don’t know about? Ten different ways reading after you wake up strengthens your brain?”

 

“Uh,” I said, trying not to let the thought of Ryan reading up on those white people healthcare blogs sneak into my head and make me snort. C’mon, I was in a shitty situation here. “No. It’s too quiet here. I couldn’t focus.”

 

“Too quiet?”

 

“Yeah. No one yelling, no one almost getting run over outside my window. Y’know, that kind of stuff.”

 

“How does quietness make you antsy?” He said, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, clearly perplexed. Good thing he hadn’t thrown me out yet, I guess.

 

“I don’t really know how to explain it besides I’m just used to everything being really loud. Like, I haven’t even heard a car drive by since I got here.” I scratched the back of my neck. “I don’t get why people like this. It’s so… eerie.” Ryan let out an amused huff. “No offense.”

 

“None taken.” Pushing himself off of the frame, he walked towards me, and I noticed that he wasn’t wearing pyjamas this time round. Maybe he needed to learn that pyjamas were actually made for sleeping in. Picking up the book from the desk, he glanced back at me, finally realising what it was. Apprehension gripped my throat, pushing down any semblance of excuse I’d made up.

 

“This is the first edition,” Ryan said,  which was most definitely not what I was expecting to hear. “My publishing company has been begging for me to auction it off for years, but that’ll happen over my dead body.”

 

“You’re not scared they’ll hire a hitman?” I asked jokingly, placing a hand over my thigh- wait.

 

Ha. Fuck.

 

If there was one thing Spencer had hated about me for the first year we’d roomed together, it was most definitely the fact that I growing up in such a crowded  house, I had gotten so comfortable in my own skin that, well, it could be the only thing I walked around in. And slept in.

 

Thankfully, for the shred of dignity that I was still desperately clinging onto, I had had the good idea to keep my underwear on for the first night I spent in this place.

 

“You alright? You seem a little… caught with your pants down.”

 

A choking noise escaped my throat before I could muffle it, and if the gleam in Ryan’s eyes said anything, it was that he found this situation beyond hilarious.

 

I pointed to the corridor that I hoped led back to my room, feeling my cheeks burn furiously.  Well, at least I knew I was still capable of blushing, although the fact that it was in front of a weirdo like him made me question my own sanity. “I’m gonna- I’m gonna go find somethin’ to wear.”

 

Ryan nodded, the smallest of smiles creeping its way onto his face. “I’ll go throw some breakfast together.”

 

-=-=-=-=-=-

 

“So I gather you’re enjoying _Fever_ ,” Ryan said, taking a sip of his coffee, which he was drinking black like the reclusive author he was. I tried not to let my horror show but I was fairly sure that it did anyway. No one I knew under thirty drank their coffee black. No one.

 

“And you’re enjoyin’ black coffee, who knows, we all have our misdeeds.”

 

Ryan suddenly choked on his drink, holding his chest as he gasped for air through bursts of restrained laughter. I blinked rapidly, mainly because there was no way my joke was that funny.

 

“I’m sorry.” Ryan shook his head, looking at me with watery eyes. “Could you say that again?”

 

“Say what?”

 

He picked his mug up to show me. “This.”

 

“What, coffee?”

 

Ryan laughed again. “Coffee,” he repeated, as if he’d never heard the word before.

 

“What the hell are you playin’ at.” I narrowed my eyes, feeling irritation accompanied by a bit of shame creeping their way into my thoughts.

 

“I thought people exaggerated the way New Yorkers say coffee, but damn, they don’t.”

 

“It sounds normal,” I frowned, my foot tapping against the floor at an increased pace.

 

“Hm” was all he replied with, and I’d never heard someone be that unconvinced in such few words. At least he wasn’t asking me about reading _Fever_ when he was making fun of my accent.  Joke’s on him, he sounded like he came straight from a farm in the middle of nowhere. Though that thought didn’t give me much reassurance.

 

“What’s with that name on the cover?” I asked, wanting to change the subject after being berated like that, even if the only thing I could think of right then was his damn book.

 

Ryan shrugged. “Pseudonym. I was too young to actually have my full name out there.”

 

“What were you, nineteen?” I said, attempting to get some sort of reaction out of him. The youngest authors I knew weren’t published until their early twenties, at best.

 

He took a long drink of his coffee then gave me a look I couldn’t decipher. “Sixteen.”

 

“Hilarious,” I snorted, taking a bite of the plain bowl of cereal Ryan had given me before realizing that he wasn’t laughing.  “Wait, you’re serious? No way. Weren’t you in _high school_?”

 

“Well, yeah, obviously,” he said. “I got lucky, I guess.”

 

“Getting picked up by a publishing company is lucky.” I leaned forward on the table. “Published at _sixteen_? Come on, that’s impossible.”

 

“What do you need, a driver’s license?” Ryan rolled his eyes. “I promise it came out eight years ago and I’m twenty-four now - do the math.”

 

So he was just one year older than I was. Huh. Somehow, I’d never really given his age any thought, too busy being either embarrassed or confused whenever he graced me with his presence. Plus, the guy seemed so ancient with his vintage furniture and computer from two decades ago, I’d assumed we were nowhere near each other’s age.

 

But now that I finally got to give him a closer look, there was something undeniably youthful in his eyes, a glimmer of wickedness that I hadn’t noticed the day before. It was almost comforting, in a way; all of my previous bosses had been old, discontent,  with no sympathy or remorse. It already felt like Ryan could be my friend first and employer second. I don’t know, it was just nice.

 

“Why G. R. Ross then?” I wondered aloud, which I hadn’t exactly meant to do.

 

“Oh,” Ryan chuckled. “That _is_ my name, you know. I’m not selfless enough to give an anonymous name all my due credit.”

 

“Do you have a new-age, hippie spelling of Ryan where it starts with a G?” I grinned. “Because that would be awesome. Gryan but the G is silent.”

 

The unimpressed look he gave me sent the message that he very much wanted to slap me, but I didn’t let that make my smile falter. Something about the fact that one second he’d laugh at my jokes and another he’d give the flattest expression I’d ever seen was troubling, to say the least, but also strangely endearing. I wasn’t sure if it was because of my horrible sense of humor or if Ryan just had zero consistency to his behavior.

 

“It’s my, ah, full name,” he answered, suddenly sheepish in a way I hadn’t seen before. And here I was getting used to the idea that he had a binary switch for emotions: sarcastic or unimpressed. “I go by my middle name.”

 

“What’s your first name? Wait, don’t tell me.” I held up a hand. “I wanna guess.”

 

“Please don’t-”

 

“Gary, Greg, uh-”

 

“I would literally die before being called either of those.”  

 

“Well, that’s why you go by Ryan, isn’t it?” I shrugged innocently. “Hm, what else could it be. Gavin, Garrett, Grant-”

 

“George,” he says suddenly, sucking in a sharp breath. “It’s George. Are you done now?”

 

I quieted, watching the smallest hint of hurt in the twist of his mouth and being immediately washed over with guilt. The last thing I wanted to do was make him feel shitty, even though his teasing of my accent earlier still lingered in the back of my mind. If the memory was painful enough to make _Ryan,_ who before seemed unflappable, upset, then it was nothing I desired to prod, because it would most definitely come and bite me in the ass.

 

“Sorry,” I muttered, sticking my nose back into my bowl, and that was how I ended that conversation.

 

“I think you’ll be here for about a month and a half at most,” Ryan said eventually, breaking the tense silence. Thank God. I didn’t want to be the first one to speak, but I didn’t want this breakfast to go on in the excruciating silence it had plunged into either. I’d dealt with that enough today. “I already have most of it written, but editing takes way longer than it should and I need to do too much fact-checking.”

 

A month and a half? I thought about the meagre contents of my backpack, which included about three t-shirts and just as many pairs of underwear. This probably wasn’t a good time to ask Ryan whether he had a washing machine. I might have forgotten deodorant as well.  I hadn’t had much time to pack thanks to Jon’s incompetence, but then again it wasn’t too difficult to figure out the essentials. Old habits die hard.

 

“So I’m here for the fact-checking part, right?”

 

“Right. Street rat and all.” Ryan paused briefly, seemingly thinking about what he’d just said. “Is that like, a slur or something? It seems offensive.”

 

“Nah,” I shrugged. “It’s basically a common adjective at this point, and most New Yorkers are pretty proud of the fact they were born there. People that come from the midwest and stuff are kinda, well, made fun of.”

 

He was listening intently, and I could practically see the gears in his brain turning, taking notes and storing the information for later. It seemed like he was muttering the words back to himself, fingers absentmindedly playing with the handle of his mug. His eyes wandered to his wristwatch, widening as he saw the time.

 

“Fuck,” he said, pushing himself away from the table. “I gotta, uh- There’s something I need to do. Don’t worry about all this, I’ll deal with it later,” he added, gesturing to the breakfast table before downing the rest of his coffee in one swig.

 

“Okay,” I said slowly, trying my best not to stare as he darted out of the kitchen, hearing the front door slam shut a few seconds later.

 

Huh. Maybe he had some kind of steamy rendezvous at six in the morning. That certainly fit his edgy, indie aesthetic. Either way, he wasn’t any less strange than when I first made up my decision about him.

 

I finished my breakfast as the sun rose over the lake and flooded the kitchen, making the tiles glow and tinting the walls with rose gold. I hadn’t felt that peaceful in months. It was weird, but definitely something I could see myself getting used to. A month and a half it was.


End file.
